


3 p.m.

by toomuchplor



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-10
Updated: 2006-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 03:12:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naptime. Dirty naptime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	3 p.m.

"What are you doing?" Rodney sounds equal parts appalled and shocked. "Do you realize I've been radioing you for two hours?"

John cautiously cracks one eye open and edges the covers down with his nose until he can see Rodney, who's standing with his knuckles on his hips, blue eyes bewildered and mouth tilted at an irritable slant. John considers answering Rodney's questions, then decides that they're far too stupid to deserve a reply. With a short sigh, he tugs the covers up again.

"It's three in the afternoon!" Rodney exclaims. "We didn't even have a mission yesterday! There hasn't been a crisis or illness or any kind of death looming over us! Why are you in bed?"

"Tired," says John into his pillow.

"This is just — I can't believe you're sleeping!" Rodney says, clearly stuck on this point. For a genius, he can be remarkably slow in grasping some concepts. "I've been in the lab since five this morning, and you're in here, what? Getting your beauty rest?"

"Mmm," says John, closing his eyes again, stretching one knee out lazily.

"Are you sick? Do you have some kind of alien fungal growth that you're trying to hide and later on tonight you're actually going to take try and take over the city?" Rodney asks. "Let me see you, come on." Cruelly, he reaches down and flips back the covers, and John makes a sound of protest as the cooler air of his bedroom hits his sleep-warm skin. "No fungus?" affirms Rodney, running his palm over the plane of John's stomach while John flails for the edge of the blanket. Rodney's hand moves lower, and as much as John would like to suspect the fungus inspection is actually a glorified excuse to cop a feel while enjoying the sight of John in Rodney's theadbare and beloved MIT sweats, he knows full well that Rodney is genuinely considering the possibility that John is hosting killer sleeping fungus.

But — "Wait," says Rodney suddenly, the back of his hand brushing over the front of the sweats, "what kind of nap was this, exactly?"

John slits his eyes open a bit and lets a smile curl over his mouth.

"Were you…" Rodney begins, then trails off as his big overactive brain changes from indignation to interest. "Oh. In the middle of the day?" Characteristically, he sounds far less horrified at this possibility than he did at the thought that John might just be sleeping. His hand lifts up, and John's hips follow after it, rising a little. "Hmm," Rodney says, his voice going deeper and smoother the way it does when he's trying to figure out a problem. "Don't let me interrupt," he says, and then he's toeing out of his shoes and clambering in beside John.

John obediently puts his hand back where it was before Rodney burst into the room, just lightly curled around his cock through the soft cotton, squeezing a little, barely moving.

"Were you –" says Rodney, thickly, gathering himself in closer but still keeping John's hand in view — "were you thinking about us?"

John gets harder from the way Rodney's voice is going dry. He squeezes again, feeling himself harden more, feeling Rodney's bulk beside him and the heat he's giving off. John closes his eyes and exhales, running his hand up and down.

"Oh, god," says Rodney, holding himself back, but John can hear and sense how much Rodney wants to put his hand where John's is.

John has to get closer to skin. Rodney's sweats are too big on John, even with the drawstring pulled tight, so John just puts his hand down the front of his pants, exhaling happily at the familiar hot feel of his own palm closing around his cock.

"Yeah," says Rodney. "God, John."

John can't tease himself, not when Rodney sounds like that, so he just tucks his head over until he's got his forehead resting on Rodney's shoulder, then starts jerking off in a slow easy rhythm, measuring his pace by the hitches and shifts of breath under him.

"I love this," says Rodney, "watching you get yourself off, picturing you doing this alone, thinking about how I feel inside you — God, John, can I put my fingers in, do you want me to –"

John opens his mouth against Rodney's shirt, wordless and mindless while his hand picks up the pace. Rodney's palm slides down the back of John's pants, but he doesn't get any farther than that before John bites back a cry and comes inside Rodney's favorite sweats. As he comes down, John can feel his forehead dampening Rodney's shirt with perspiration, but he's even more aware of the taut pulse underneath, the way Rodney's hanging on by a thread.

"Just, just," says Rodney, frantically opening his fly and then getting his fingers laced in John's hair. He pushes down, rolling onto his back and hauling John with him, and John just goes because it's rare that Rodney's like this in bed, all desperation and need and hunger.

It doesn't take long — four messy sucks with John's index finger pressed up behind Rodney's balls, and Rodney's gone. In the space of a couple of breaths, Rodney goes from manic pleasure to satiated peace; and by the time John's kicked his way out the come-stained sweats and clambered up to drape himself over Rodney's prone form, Rodney's sound asleep at three in the afternoon.

With his arm looped over Rodney, John hauls the covers back up and wriggles himself into warmth and comfort again. He allows himself a small smile into the quiet secrecy of the curve between Rodney's shoulder and neck. He knew he could get Rodney to catch up on his sleep, given the right incentive.


End file.
